CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dust particles scattered in the slanted light, piercing through the gaps in the wooden walls. The cabin, once a sanctuary of rural life, now reeked of death and gunpowder. Rachel's knees pressed hard against the worn floorboards, the grain etched into them as deep as the lines of worry furrowed on her brow. She shifted, her muscles tense, eyes locked onto the black bags that held more than just the weight of human remains.

The zipper on one body bag was undone, cruelly revealing what she had feared. Barker. Old man with hands that knew the soil, face forever frozen beneath the shadow of the cabin's dim interior. His dead eyes met hers, a silent accusation.

Boots scuffed behind her, the gunmen's presence oppressive. They spoke in whispers, words muffled by their masks and the thick tension hanging like smoke in the air. Their hands restless on the grips of their weapons, adjusting straps, itching for action.

Rachel's gaze flickered towards them, searching for any clue, any slip that might give her leverage. One caught her eye, his posture rigid with anger. Quick as a rattlesnake, he stepped forward, finger pointed squarely at her.

"Keep your damn eyes down, cop."

His voice, a serrated blade—harsh, unforgiving. The threat in it coiled around Rachel like barbed wire, but she didn't flinch. The other two shuffled, their unease palpable even as they tried to calm their companion. The cabin felt smaller with every passing second, a cage made of old wood and looming shadows.

"Shut it. Boss'll have our hides if we mess this up," another growled, a warning laced within the gruff syllables.

"Boss ain't here, is he?" the furious one spat back, voice barely controlled.

Rachel's hands curled into fists, the dirt from the floor embedding itself under her nails. She catalogued every sound—their breathing, the creak of leather, the click of a safety being flicked off and on. She memorized the pitch and timbre of their voices, anything that might reveal an identity or intention.

"Enough!" The third man's command cut through the murmurs like a gunshot. "We do what we came for. That's it."

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Rachel's throat tightened. She took in a slow, measured breath, the scent of blood and pine mixing in her nostrils. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of information, discarding none. Every detail mattered. Every second counted.

She kept her head bowed, giving the illusion of submission, while inside, the fire of resistance blazed hotter than ever.

The cabin air was still, heavy with the stench of death and the latent threat of violence. Rachel's eyes darted from the slumped shapes in the body bags to the three looming figures. They were faceless enigmas behind their ski masks, voices muffled but laden with malice.

"Boss has rules. No witnesses," one of them muttered, his voice a guttural whisper that skittered across the wooden floorboards.

Rachel's pulse quickened. She knew these men were not just messengers of death; they were its harbingers, ready to deliver her to the same fate as Barker—unless she could find a way to turn the tables. Her gaze fixed on the worn boots stepping closer, the crunch of debris underfoot breaking the silence.

"Maybe we should take her to him," the tallest thug suggested, his words slicing through the tension like a blade. "Let him decide if he wants to feed her to the hogs."

"Or do it ourselves," another proposed.

A shiver ran down Rachel's spine—their casual discussion of her demise a clear sign of their detachment, their experience with such grim deeds. But beneath her fear, a smoldering anger ignited.

"Move," the first gunman commanded, motioning with the barrel of his gun for her to stand.

Rachel complied, her muscles tensing for action. Her mind raced, calculating the distance to the door, the weight of the air, the possibility of escape.

"Walk," the tallest ordered, nudging her forward with cold steel pressed against her spine.

Outside, the moon hung low, casting long shadows across the Texas landscape. The night seemed to stretch into infinity, a vast expanse of uncertainty. With each step, Rachel moved further from safety.

Rough hands seized Rachel, jerking her towards the trees. She stumbled, boots scraping against the ground. Her balance wavered, but she refused to fall.

Resistance surged within her. Rachel's elbow shot back, connecting with soft tissue. A grunt. Then pain exploded across her cheek, white-hot and searing. Another fist collided with her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She doubled over, gasping, fighting for breath.

"Enough games," spat another voice. It was colder, more controlled.

Rachel's fingers brushed against her belt, feeling for the radio that wasn't there. They had taken it.

"Stupid cop," hissed the third gunman.

The world narrowed to points of contact—the rough texture of the ground beneath her palms as she braced herself; the sting of blood trickling from a split lip; the sharp crackle of leaves underfoot.

"Boss ain't gonna be happy about this.”

"Shut up. Just get her to the car.”

Rachel's wrists burned, the zip ties biting into her flesh as they dragged her through the thicket. Branches snagged at her hair. The moon hung low, a silent witness in a cloudless Texas sky, casting just enough light to reveal the path ahead.

The cabin lights receded, swallowed by the dense woods that blanketed the property. Rachel stumbled over a root, catching herself before she could hit the ground. One body bag brushed against her boot—a morbid reminder of her potential fate. The larger, thicker set thug carried one of the bags.

The tall one carried the other.

"Watch it," another growled. No names, no faces—just voices, distorted behind the ski masks.

The car loomed like a specter among the trees, its black paint blending with the shadows. They flung open the trunk, shoving Rachel inside without ceremony. She landed hard, the metallic taste of blood fresh in her mouth. The corpses followed. Beside her, the two body bags lay still, their zippers halfway undone, revealing the vacant stare of Barker, the farmer.

"Boss will know what to do with you," the third thug spat out as he slammed the trunk closed, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

Darkness enveloped her, thick and suffocating. Rachel's chest tightened, every breath a struggle against the claustrophobia threatening to take hold. Her mind raced, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She couldn't afford panic—not now.

They would drive her to him—the boss. He was the key. If she went to him, she wouldn't come back. She didn’t want to end up like Barker and his wife. Not in a body bag.

Her hands worked at the ties, skin chafing as she twisted and pulled.

"Rae, stay alive," she whispered to herself, the mantra grounding her in the darkness.

With a final desperate tug, the zip tie gave way. Rachel's hands were free. Now came the hard part: escape. She groped along the wall of the trunk, fingers finding the emergency release. It was there. It had to be there.

The car engine roared to life, vibrations pulsing through the metal. Time was slipping away, each second taking her closer to an end she wasn't ready to meet. She had to act. Now.

Rachel's finger hooked onto the lever, a small triumph in the oppressive dark. She paused, waiting for the right moment. The car lurched forward, tires crunching over gravel.

But the lever didn’t work.

Shit. Broken.

The car's engine growled, a predator come to life, and she felt the vehicle roll forward, kidnapping her along with the night's shadows.

Rachel pressed her ear against the cold metal that separated her from the front seat, straining to catch fragments of conversation through the muffled barrier. Voices, low and coarse, slipped through the seams.

A phone’s soft beep broke it - a call connecting. Then, another voice, distant but clear, barked through the speakerphone. "

"Trouble back at the cabin," said a gruff voice. A hand slammed against the steering wheel, punctuating the tension. "Yeah, caught ourselves a cop. A Ranger."

A pause hung heavy in the air, like the weight of an impending storm. The first voice hesitated, breaths audible over the line. An exhale. "Boss, your orders?"

Rachel's pulse quickened. She willed her training to the forefront, her mind racing through scenarios, each more desperate than the last. The line crackled, a voice slicing through the static with authority.

"Take care of it." Three words, detached. Final.

The car sped up, the change in pace pressing Rachel against the hard surface beneath her. The bodies adjacent to her felt like silent witnesses.

“You sure? Alright, on it boss.”

The car jolted to a halt. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as dust settled around the still vehicle. Rachel's heart hammered in her chest, a rapid drumbeat that matched the quickening pace of her thoughts. She knew this was it.

"Sorry, Ranger," a gruff voice muttered from outside the trunk. The sound of metal scraping against a leather holster filled the confined space. A gun clicked, its mechanical noise stark against the hushed backdrop of the surrounding woods.

Rachel released the breath she'd been holding, her trained eyes scanning the darkness for an advantage, an edge. She noted the slivers of light peeking through the cracks, the faint outline of the trunk's latch. Her fingers curled into fists, ready.

The trunk groaned open, stale air rushing in to replace the suffocating atmosphere. Rachel blinked against the sudden intrusion of light, her gaze locking onto the gun barrel pointed at her face. The man behind it wore a ski mask, eyes cold and unyielding.

"Boss said you're done." His words were a death sentence delivered without emotion.

Time slowed. Rachel's senses heightened. The smell of pine and earth infiltrated her nostrils. She heard the distant call of a bird, oblivious to the unfolding drama. The gunman's finger tensed on the trigger, a small movement with lethal intent.

She couldn't see his face, but she could read his body language, predict his next move.

“Get out of the trunk, now !” he snapped.